Aftermath
by fishcatfishcat
Summary: Sequel to 'Parallels'. Peeta is home after winning the 74th Hunger Games with Cato. The Victory Tour is coming up soon, adding more stress. There may be lemons.


Reminder that this is a sequel and the first story 'Parallels' can be found on my account page thingy.

**Chapter 1**

When my eyes flash open I see the sun illuminating my bedroom curtains. I look at my bedside clock and it's 5:42 am. I pull the duvet off of my sweaty body knowing I won't get back to sleep even if I try. Nightmares wake me up at ridiculous times of the night or in the early hours of the morning. I haven't had a peaceful night's sleep since I was poisoned by Cato.

Ugh, Cato. How stupid have I been? Whenever I think about how easily I forgave him I always put it down to the tracker-jacker venom. Or how drunk I was. Or that I was so overwhelmed by the fact I had survived I didn't want to ruin it by arguing with him. But I should have stood up for myself. I should have told him that it's not okay that he used me like that. Now he knows he has a hold on me and I won't be surprised if he exploits it again.

I get up and stretch, the nightmare fading from my memory. I pull open my curtains and look out at the cul-de-sac. My house is one of twelve small mansions. Seventy-four years ago they would have been a wonder to look at. But now the paint has peeled, the windows are grimy and the lawns are brown. Mine is the only one that isn't overgrown with weeds. Each house has a grand wooden door with two white-painted stone columns standing at each side. My door has been polished, taking a few years off how old it looks but I doubt it'll be very long until my house resembles the others on the street.

The only house in the Victors' Village that is occupied, besides mine, is Haymitch's. He's rarely seen, not that this news is very surprising. It crosses my mind that in the month I've been here I haven't been seen very much, either.

I put on my hunting clothes: a brown shirt, beige hiking trousers, a rainproof jacket, a leather knife holster, and leather boots. I jog downstairs and make myself a bowl of muesli from my many cupboards stuffed with food. I don't expect to always have this quantity and quality of food. They said I will, but I know they won't make special deliveries for me, as I'm one of very few in the district who can afford it. If I was a Career Victor I'm sure they'd be true to their word.

My new house is filled with supplies: stationary, cooking utensils, clothes, films and television. Each week a team of housekeepers come to deliver food and tidy up, even though I keep the place clean. They get paid whether or not they work so I let them help themselves to whatever they want, that usually being food. Everything I'd need could probably be found in my house, besides what I actually need, hunting equipment. I use my selection of cooking knives as throwing knives and I fashioned myself a spear by attaching a screw driver to the shaft of a mop with some wire.

I take the knives from the kitchen drawer and slip them into my home-made holster. I then get my makeshift spear from the pantry where I keep it hidden. I get a bag of trail mix which fits neatly in a pocket on my holster before leaving out the door. I follow the route into town, then turn left which takes me to the district border. I used to be cautious because of the risk of a peacekeeper seeing me, it'd be hard to explain what I was doing. But the path is virtually unused, I know it's not likely I'll get caught illegally crossing the fence.

"DISTRICT BOUNDRY, NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT" and "DANGER: ELECTRIC FENCE" signs are dotted along the wire. It isn't electric, of course, because I would have been electrocuted many times by now if it was. I don't know if there's any chance of it ever being live, but if it is I presume it would make some form of noise, like buzzing. It doesn't make any, as always, so I pass through the hole in the chain link I made two weeks ago with DIY tools and a lot of determination.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I jog towards the forest. Oddly, I've found myself feeling more at home among the greenery than actually being in my district. I spend most of my days trekking and hunting. I've honed my knife and spear throwing skills since my return, probably because of all the time, thus practice, I've had.

It took me more than a week to hunt my first rabbit, I had to get into the routine of hunting and getting used to using my rudimentary spear was a challenge. That was two weeks ago. Now everything feels natural, like second nature. I don't _try _to be deadly quiet when on the hunt, I just am. I feel a sense of clarity, a different sense of perception, when on the hunt. I'll hear sounds that I would have otherwise dismissed as background noise.

The ground is littered with decayed leaves. Autumn has come and gone, leaving a small gap of time before the numbing winter weather kicks in with as much force as it can. Hopefully the cold will slow the animals down more than it slows me down. I've noticed that the rabbits seem to be more active at dawn, when they forage for food. My theory is that they let their guard down once they have their food, usually at the time when I'm deep enough in the forest to find them.

I've practised running on the balls of my feet, masking the sound of my steps. I can feel my senses begin to heighten as I stalk through the trees. With my spear in my left hand and a small knife in my right I crouch behind some bushes. I don't move or breathe. Birds sing in the distance. Leaves brush against each other in the light breeze above me. The slight rustling of leaves is heard to my left. I hold my position, straining myself to hear past my natural abilities. Leaves rustle again, this time further away. In one swift move I follow the noise, keeping low and in cover. Balancing on my left leg, with my right leg in the air, I peer around a tree and see a cottontail rabbit grooming itself. I don't breathe as I lean further, aiming my knife. It's not too far away so one accurate thorough throw should be sufficient.

As the knife is released from my grip, my foot slips. Not far, but enough to change the direction the knife is travelling. It strikes the ground, inches from the rabbit. It sees the knife and hops away before I'm stood up straight. I retrieve the knife from the dirt and return it to the holster. That was by far the easiest hunt I've had, and I blew it. Something to simple as my foot slipping.

I can't help but find it discouraging me. I spend the rest of the day hunting, finding I'm off my game. The morning passes and the weight of failure hangs on my shoulders. I give up, knowing I won't catch anything if I continue feeling sorry for myself. I go to a small meadow that has become a fond spot of mine. It overlooks a vast valley and I've found myself often spending the afternoon daydreaming, making shapes out of the clouds.

I snack on the nuts and dried berries I brought with me absently. The clouds drift by. Every now and then the sun finds a way through the gaps. Occasionally I see a bird soaring across the valley and I long to feel the freedom that the bird must feel.

Of course I've thought about running away, trying my chances at surviving in what used to be known as America. I'd be able to keep myself fed, along with finding a water source and shelter I think I'd manage quite well. But what would happen once I'm gone? Would they search for me? Would they harm my family, even kill them? I can't risk that. Besides, the life I'm living now isn't too bad. I come to the woods almost every day, I live in a grand house and have all the food I'd want, for now that is. The catch being that for one month a year I have to mentor two people who are almost certainly going to die as they compete in the hunger games, while keeping up the illusion that Cato and I are happily in love. Then I'll have to be present when the future victor comes to district twelve for their victory tour. However, if my tribute should win, I'll have to go on the victory tour with them. Like Haymitch will have to do with me, when the time comes.

I let out a heavy breath. The victory tour. It's coming up in a few months. It's been at the back of mind but it always finds a way to become my main focus of attention. I stand up and go back into the woods to find my snares. I've set five of them, if I set any more I'll forget where they are. I save a few raisins and nuts for bait.

I use a four-figure deadfall trap, which basically drops a heavy rock on whatever takes the bait when activated. However, all of them seem to activate prematurely, so they haven't helped me at all so far. I'm holding out hope that I will find out what's wrong with them, though.

After checking that the fifth trap is empty, and after resetting it, I make my way back. When I get to the fence I see the sun is making its descent. It won't be more than a few hours until the sun sets. I pass through the hole in the chain link, then walk back to my house. The Victors' Village is eerily quiet, as always. I walk along the smooth stone pathway to my front door.

I hold the doorknob when I see the curtains in my living room window shift. Is it one the housekeepers? It can't be, they come on Saturdays and today's a Monday. I stay still, listening for any sounds that may come from inside, keeping my eyes on the window. It's probably somebody from the district stealing food. Or is it one of Gale's friends? What if there's a group of them in my living room right now? No, they would have seen, and therefore attacked, me by now. I gently turn the knob, and push. I lean forward, looking past the door and see the figure of a man tiptoeing in my kitchen.

"Stay still!" I bellow, shocking even myself that it came out so loud. My knife is out of its holster and is in my hand, ready.

"If you wanted food, you could've just asked," I say as he slowly turns and I lower my knife. I slip it back into the holster and when I look up I have to double take when I see Gale standing before me.

"I'm gonna..." he says, indicating the back door as he goes to walk out of it.

"Gale, stay," I plead.

"No," he says, placing his hand on the doorknob, "I can't."

His empty voice sounds disappointed. Like he was expecting to find Katniss here. I let him leave and see him pass the kitchen window. I close the front door then hide my spear in the pantry. Out the window I see the sun setting, casting long shadows across the street.

I try to think of a way around the security system in my house. The housekeepers are supposed to be here daily and because they're in and out of the house a lot, it gets annoying when they have to get their thumbs scanned to unlock the door each time they enter the house. Especially if they're delivering food. So instead of the door locking automatically each time it closes, the door just stays open for the duration of their shifts. Then reverts to locking automatically when it's over. But because I made a deal with them that they only come in on Saturdays, while telling the district that they come in daily so they still get paid, nobody's in the house to stop or report intruders. There's no way of me tampering with the security system to suit my needs without the district knowing what we're doing.

There's a control pad built into the wall next to the door, but it's locked up, like a wall safe. I've only seen it being opened once, when I first moved in and I needed to add my thumb print to the data base as the owner of the house. Hazel, one of the housekeepers, opened the small metal door showing a screen behind it. She pressed different buttons and tabs while I was taking in the wonder of the entrance hall, then told me to press my thumb on the screen, when my thumbprint was registered. She'll have the key, I'll ask her on Saturday. I guess you could say Hazel and I are friends.

I close the curtains and turn the TV on, accustomed to the sense of company it gives. I go to the basement where there are stacks of blank, and painted, canvases. I've immersed myself in my art since my return. Each night when I wake up frozen in fear I'll go down to the basement and paint. I won't be thinking, I'll just be painting. The basement has become the place where I place bad memories or unwanted feelings.

Today, however, I'm not going to be painting my nightmares. I jog down the steps and get myself a medium sized canvas and my easel. Gale came here of his own accord. He didn't come here to start a fight, he was going to talk to me. Even though he didn't in the end, the fact he tried is what has lifted my spirits. Hopefully he's still trying, maybe he'll see that it isn't all my fault. That is what I paint.

I work late into the night. I start a preliminary sketch with a pencil, Gale lounging on a bed of hay, looking out at the valley. I mix a few basic colours: green, brown, blue, a skin tone, then paint them with a big brush. I then focus on one area at a time, creating a palette full of shades of green as I paint the grass, using a finer brush. I paint his trousers, using a range of beiges, then I paint his shirt, perfecting the shade of olive that he was wearing today. I waste half a tube of paint trying to match his skin, it either comes out too pale or too pink. His eye colour matches his brunette hair. With an even finer brush I add shading, the most time consuming and frustrating part of painting. I make sure that the shadows are in alignment with the sun.

With my arms, front and as I later realise face, covered in paint, I step away from the easel and look at my work. The features of the man in the painting don't look like Gale's, but the man in the painting does look like Gale, like I've captured his spirit. Even though that is the most clichéd line an artist can use. Ever. I go into the kitchen to wash up and realize that the sun has set. I look at the clock and the time is 10:23. I've spent much more time on the painting than I thought I did.

I leave the painting out to dry as I make myself a late supper, consisting of a ham sandwich. I wash up and get the paint cleaned off of me before stripping to my boxers. I tried sleeping in pyjamas for the first week of living here, but my boxers feel much more comfortable. I double check all the lights are off then return to my room, which light I turn off too. I'm actually much more tired than I thought. Within minutes of my mind drifting aimlessly my eyelids begin to feel heavier. I go with it, being pulled into what may be my first night of peaceful sleep in over a month.

* * *

Hazel and I sit at the kitchen counter, her hands hug a mug of warm cocoa. Like me, she has come to love it. She takes her bulky coat off, the climate control in the house doing its job.

"Gale was here yesterday," I blurt out as she takes a sip, she almost chokes.

"Gale was _here_?" She asks, her voice rising an octave.

"Yeah, I went out to-" I haven't told Hazel how I spend my time illegally hunting, though I'm sure she has her suspicions, "for a walk, and when I came back he was just standing in the kitchen."

"He just let himself in? Did he say anything?"

"No, he just looked at me and left," I decide not to tell her what he said. I'm still not sure what he meant by it, anyway.

"He can't have been looking for a fight, I mean, you'd crush him," she says, I suppress a smug smile.

"Then what was he here for?" I ask.

"He might have realized that Katniss' death wasn't your fault, maybe trying to apologize. It'd be a pretty big thing for somebody like him to do, admitting he was wrong." She says, as if anybody could figure it out.

What I've found about Hazel is how empathetic she is. When she met me there was no awkwardness. Like everybody else she saw me on the mandatory broadcast, but she understood that I did what I needed to do. Though it might not have been what she would have done had she been in my situation, she knew it was necessary.

"Hmm," I say in agreement, "so... is there a way to change it so people can't just wander in? You know, the security controls."

She considers what I say, taking another sip. She was the person who had the key to the controls when I first moved in, so I presume she still has it.

"I had to take the key back to the justice building once I was done. You have to log it in and out and I don't think I'd be able to get it again. Unless you can think of a good excuse," she says, resting her chin in her hand, her arm propped up by her elbow.

"Well what would be a legitimate reason to log them out for?" I ask.

"If there was an actual problem with the security." she says with a light chuckle, "Just about everything that happens in the house is monitored by the control panel. The climate, the temperature of the fridge, your weekly energy budget, your weekly food budget, what entertainment access you have. You name it."

"I didn't know I had a budget," I say, genuinely surprised.

"Exactly,"

"What's entertainment access?" I ask.

"I don't know, when I was registering you the screen directed me through what I needed to do. It showed different options, entertainment access was one of them, and they were all set on default. Before I could check any of them out it asked for the owner's thumbprint. Once you put it in the screen locked itself." she explains while I hang on her every word. I wander if there's any way of formulating a plan to get the keys.

"You're thinking about stealing them aren't you?" she jokes, after a minute of silence. Her smile fades, "you actually are."

"Well it's my house," I state, boldly.

"Oh Peeta, you think that's true don't you?" that catches me off guard, I look down at my full cup of cocoa. The steam rises then dissipates into the air. "Besides, if we got caught it'd be me who'd take the fall. It's the way they do things."

I take a sip, knowing she's right. If the Capitol want to punish you, they harm the ones around you. I know I have to tread very lightly around the Capitol, I have to be very careful, at least for now. Being caught stealing something, regardless of what it is, could have drastic consequences. Not to mention me passing the district boundary and poaching on an almost daily basis. Getting myself into trouble would be a very unwise thing to do right now.

"You want to watch out, really. Snow doesn't like victors, and this year he's got two." she says and I feel naked, like she knows all of my secrets. She's not warning me not to try and get the keys, she's warning me not to hunt. "Well I'm going to clean the already tidy house."

As she ascends the stairs I remember what is in the centre of my room. _How the hell did she do that? _

"Peeta!" I hear her call, I assume from my room.

I follow her upstairs, awaiting her interrogation. Why did you paint Gale? Are you into him? Why is his painting in your room? Are there any more? Is your basement full of them?

I feel a heavy weight in my stomach as I cross the landing. I gulp as I swing my door open.

"Nice shading," she says, observing the easel, "you must spend a lot of time looking in the mirror."

"I'm sorry?" I ask, dread and confusing mixing in my stomach.

"It looks exactly like you. The jaw, the nose, the hair. The only problem I'd say is the eyes, they look brown."

She thinks it's a self-portrait. I study the painting, barely remembering painting it. The sun casts a golden streak on his hair, making him appear blonde. But if you look closely you can see brunette undertones. He has the same nose and jaw as me. But Hazel's right, those aren't my eyes. It's odd, like I've created some odd Gale/Peeta lovechild. There's probably some physiological reason behind it. It won't be long until she figures out who I see in the painting.

"Hey you know who he reminds me-" she begins.

"I got paint on the living room floor." I interrupt.

"You got the floor messy?"

"Yes,"

"And you didn't clean it up?"

"Mhm"

"Well done!" she says, clapping, "Now I'm actually doing something to earn the money I'm getting." She says, running outside and downstairs. She'll be annoyed when she doesn't find any mess, but I know she won't really care because she'll have figured who I saw in the painting.

* * *

A week later I find myself lounging on my living room sofa, staring blankly at my TV screen. I have two more rabbits in the freezer and three more paintings in the basement, which isn't bad a for a week's work. Today Hazel and the others were over, she hasn't said anything about last week. Which is worse than if she had said something because if she wasn't sure what was going she would question me, that's how she is. But her silence tells me more. It tells me she knows I thought I was drawing Gale. She knows I'm not sure what to make of it. Hell, she knows more about me than I do.

I lean my head on the arm rest, hoping I might go to sleep. I doubt it, the sun's still up. Too late to hunt, too early to sleep. I take longer breaths, hoping I'll relax myself into unconsciousness. As I reposition my head I forget about the annoying plastic strip that seems to be attached to the sofa. A clear shiny strip, the length of a pencil runs parallel to the edge of the arm rest. It doesn't come off, like it's fused to the leather. I just don't see what use it may have.

I go to the utility drawer in the kitchen. Amongst the tools it seems a screw driver is my best choice to pry the plastic off. I run my finger and thumb along both sides of the plastic rod at the same time, in a pinching motion, to see if there are any faults in the way it's fused to the sofa. As soon as I let go it begins to glow. I wait a second to see if it does anything else. Nothing. I swipe my hand along it again, still nothing. Maybe it's a night light. Just to be sure I swipe it again, in the opposite direction.

The plastic rises up, out of the sofa. Then it stops and there's a glowing rectangle with rounded edges standing there. I pick it up and the light goes out, I see it was attached to the sofa by a power port of some kind. Suddenly it isn't see through, a screen appears. A home screen loads, one button says 'Cortex' the other says 'Files'. I press the Cortex button, but nothing happens. I press the Files button and a page with lots of different options loads. TV, Film, Books, Games, News and Weather are among them. I look through a few of them, finding I have a potential infinity of entertainment in my hands. The Books option, being my most anticipated interest, isn't as full as I had expected. A little under fifty stories. I notice that they are all children's stories.

I play a few games. They keep my hooked for a few minutes, but I soon find them dull. I then look through the encyclopedia, researching different animals, the history of the games, the history of the world. I look outside my window and see it's night time. Wow, time moved quickly. After watching a tutorial on how to turn it off, I attach the tablet back to its port in the sofa, and go upstairs to bed feeling a sense of enlightenment.

* * *

After reading that winter-time is mating season for the white-tailed deer, I've been more vigilant when on the hunt. In a nutshell they're so horny and focused on getting laid that I have a better chance at killing one. I walk further than I usually do, a buzz of excitement and eagerness running through me.

I squat behind a tree, waiting. In the distance I hear a slight clacking noise. I hear another and another. I follow it. My feet glide across the frozen ground. I hear grunts along with hard smacks as I get closer.

From behind a tree I see two bucks, their antlers locked in battle. I observe them ram into each other a few times, trying to push the other back. They continue this for a while, until it becomes noticeable that one of them seems to get pushed back more often than the other. The further the fight drags on the weaker it gets, and the further back it gets pushed. It's obvious who will win.

I see the two of them before me and I feel an odd sense of power. I can choose which will live. By choosing which will live I will also choose which will mate and reproduce. My knife is in the weaker buck's neck before the other even notices. It seems more logical to let the stronger one live, seeing as it'd be more likely to produce strong offspring. A concept I later learn to be the premise of evolution.

After the stronger buck sees me and sprints away, I go to collect my reward. It takes four hours to lug the 250lb carcass back to the fence. I'm sweating like a pig and my arms and legs are drained. I take a small break then continue dragging the corpse. With a final mental push I drag the buck to the back door in under ten minutes.

I peer inside, there I see in the entrance hall a group of five men. At first I think they're Gale's co-workers, come to attack me. Then I see one holding a camera. The other holding a boom microphone. I step back, still looking in, making sure I'm out of their view. Suddenly, Effie Trinket walks into my kitchen and sees me looking through the glass.

"Peeta, what are you doing out there?" she asks, walking to the back door. Shit. She's going to see the deer, she's going to see my hunting weapons. She's going to know what I've been doing.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, it's taken some time but here it is. I was going to ditch this chapter and rewrite it but I chose not to in the end. Peeta may be a bit ooc I don't know. Anyway, it'd love to hear what you think about it. If any of you could think of a better name than 'Aftermath' that'd be sweet.

Also I've started another story. It's a Sherlock AU, so it'd be cool if you checked it out. Thanks!


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